Writing into the void

Nº 001

Somewhere in Lancaster, Calif. (2018, Chris Pugh Photo)

Starting over feels a little like admitting defeat. But it isn’t. It’s just a better use of time.

Somewhere along the way, my newsletter picked up too much noise. Too many political ramblings. Too many stray thoughts that blurred what mattered. I wrote about everything, which means I wrote about nothing. I don’t want to do that anymore. I also need to avoid conflicts with my job, and the political content wasn't helping.

The gist is that in the past few months, my father had a stroke. My nephew took his own life. My dog died. My mother's health started slipping away, too. My world got smaller, sharper, and a lot quieter. There's something clarifying about watching the people and things you love fade right in front of you. About seeing the people in your life start to lose their way. You stop pretending you have time for nonsense. You stop mistaking volume for meaning.

So here we are. This newsletter is starting over.

It’ll still be rooted in personal essays, but the focus will be clearer. You’ll find stories about art. Reflections on trying to rebuild a life with more intention. Observations about navigating loss without falling into despair. Notes on choosing to make something better, even when the odds look terrible.

You won’t see the old political rants anymore. I scrubbed them out. They didn’t belong here. They never really did. It’s easy to confuse anger with purpose. It’s harder to sit still and do the real work. But that’s where I’m aiming now.

You signed up for this email at some point, and you're still here. Thanks for that. If you ever wondered what it looks like to strip everything down and start again, you’re about to find out.

If this isn’t what you signed up for, no hard feelings. There's an unsubscribe link below if you want to slip out the back door. I’ll still be here either way, writing into the void.

— Chris

---